


blue

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:59:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4262484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York is wet in July.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blue

 

 

 

Frank doesn't remember how it came to this:

'Don't-' John's swallowing hard. 'Don't start something you won't finish, Lamps. Just.'

  Frank's hand stills against his lapel. He lets it fall down and tilts his head back. They're carefully not touching each other now, a cultivated vacuum of space between them.

  Then John sighs and gets up. Frank shuts his eyes so he doesn't have to watch him leave.

 

\- 

 

In fact he remembers too well. It starts off innocuous, just two old friends getting dinner together before one of them goes abroad for a long time, too much wine, talking, arms around each other's shoulders while laughing about the old days. It ends with him sitting in bed alone, shirt buttons half undone. 

He remembers wondering, hysterically amused, how they've managed to avoid that all along. 13 years- and they haven't been saints, have they? It's not like he hasn't hurt someone he loved (not like they both hadn't), not like he hasn't  _ thought  _ about it, just leaning in during a party when they'll both be too drunk to remember it in the morning. 

He could have, tonight. He could have summed up all the accumulated glances and touches and made them tangible for once. Frank thinks,  _ I wish I'd kissed him.  _ But he knows he's spent all his wishes already. 

 

John still texts when Frank's boarding the plane. _Good luck Lamps._ Even though he's said it already, about a dozen times in different occasions across several medias. They can't leave each other alone, can they? Frank stares at the text for a long time, doesn't reply. They're still mates, best mates, and somehow that makes everything worse.

 

-

 

New York is wet in july. The streets all slick and shiny with reflecting puddles, quickly evaporating in the heat blazes that rose up every afternoon. His socks always stuck to his shins and the wet grass made it itchy and uncomfortable, and Frank marvels at how it strange it all seemed while being perfectly familiar. It's always fucking steamy, the grass pitch smells like mud and heat and sweat, and he should be tired of it, the strange start up of the season when he's just played a full one, but he isn't. It's a bit like jet lag or something, though he's cycled through the time difference with no problem. He's still used to training like it's in season, and so his body's still going on.

David Villa is every bit as great as promised. Frank teases him about the Kaplan english books he's learning out of during breaks in the day, but Villa just takes it, scratching his head and laughing at his own pronunciation. He's heard enough from Silva to know what to expect, relishes the opportunity to play with him, finally.

The other lads are careful with him, no doubt confused and vaguely in awe. Frank doesn't feel like a big fish in a small pond. He feels more like a fish in a strange pond, because there's new rules and regulations to the game, new customs, new fucking _words_ people used. He's got no idea what the dimensions of this pond was.

It'll be better when he makes his debut, he thinks. This, at least, remained exactly the same: the ball against his instep as he sweeps it high, perfectly curved, and catches the back of the net with a soft whisper.

 

-

 

They ask him to do an interview about settling in with the team, getting used to the City. There's another quirk- how everyone calls it the City, capitalization visible with the way they pronounced it. Like it's the only city worth mentioning in the world. He recalls rain, suddenly, the cold way it fell on cobblestones and steel grey skies above the Bridge. It was stupid, since it's not like it didn't get cold in New York. It would be sweltering in London anyway. Still the same latitude. He misses home.

He's so tired, all of a sudden, with that one, unreasonable revelation. He's tired of saying the same thing and then not meaning any of it. It's a deep seated bone itch that makes him shift, uncomfortable, through the whole conversation.

“I'm happy to be here.” He says, “I'm looking forward to the new challenges ahead.” And it was only half a lie. He wonders, offhand, if John was watching this interview. He probably would. He'd probably text him later, too, and that would be good. It'd be alright, just like old times.

 

-

 

John doesn't text him. Not since the good luck message, which Frank couldn't reply to anymore because it's a week out of date. He struggles to think of conversation starters and end up not using any of them.

It's messing with his head, and it's probably visible to everyone around. Christine called it his “ _sad owl face”_ which didn't really help. He might be frowning more in training, as everyone gives him a wide berth. David ignores it, of course, still makes stuttering conversation while they changed beside each other.

2 days to his debut. Frank's threading his laces, poking them through the holes with more force than was probably necessary, when David turns around and raises an eyebrow, says, “Are you okay?”

Frank considers.  _Not really,_ He wants to say,  _I think I messed up something without even knowing how. I'm homesick and living in Brooklyn is making me question my motivations._

Villa looks at him, shrewdly. He turns away to lace up his boots. “It's not about any of it, you know?”

“About what?” Frank asks, tugging on his own. 

“It's not about- everyone else. Just you.” David says. He hesitates. “And him?” 

Frank straightens up slowly. They look each other in the eye, and Frank wonders if he's supposed to ask for clarification, make David say the whole thing out loud. There's a thrill in it. And then he remembers, with a strange, empty feeling, like all the air's leaked out of his punctured lungs, that nothing ever happened. 

He nods, and David lets it go, pats him twice on the back in camaraderie. 

 

-

 

The David incident made him think. It's the night before his debut, and he's supposed to be in bed, not staying up in front of the telly on the couch. He can't make himself move, instead scrolling through his instagram, and then John's, like a sad masochist. He stops at the picture John posted after he played at the Bridge one last time, wearing a different shade of blue.

It hits him with a dizzying force suddenly. Has it been so fucking obvious all along? He looks at their cheeks pressed against each other, John's face hidden, both his hands snug around Frank's waist. He looks at his own face, just the curve of his nose and his eyes visible.

Wasn't there a phrase for what he's feeling? When people said they felt sad or, melancholy, the feeling when the world kind of tilted away and you're longing for something or someone, _I feel blue_. It sounded archaic and a bit childish. Frank thinks about blue, saying, _I feel blue today,_ and it meant the opposite of that. It's the condensed memory of Chelsea, 13 years of winning and losing by his side. How do you come back from that? 

Frank doesn't think he can. 

 

-

 

He takes the phone and types in, _Come visit me in NYC._ A hesitation, and then he adds a few more words. It's nothing they haven't said to each other before, but this time it felt like something else, the combination of the two phrases. The possibilities he's broaching. Perhaps this is him crossing the line, at last. 

He thinks,  _I love you,_ and presses send.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> everything to do with _happy blue feelings_ is borrowed from my brother the chelsea fan. the amount of existential angst i went thru to write this was _truly_ amazing.


End file.
